When I look up at the screen to announce my potential new canine friend, Harold has sent at least ninety messages back to back, each one in all caps, demanding, “TITS! TITS! TITS!”
I have no more patience for this man or his misogyny. “The spirits say you’re an asshole and that you’re gonna get ass-fucked with a machete. Hope it hurts, Harold.” Done with him, I block the bastard, because I won’t condone his horrible behavior, and I don’t need hismeasly five-dollar monthly subscription. Bubba gives me all the money I want. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a kept man, because I’m kept by Bubba, and I’ll rock that title like it’s a badge of honor.
StopFrackingStartSnackingOnDaddy is typing, and it takes him a full minute to finally get the words out, saying, “Can you do me next?”
God knows why it took him so long to type five words, but I didn’t mind, because the silence gave me the chance to stare at his profile picture, and it’s probably my favorite picture ever. It’s a close-up shot of his ass, and his ass is high, tight, and full of life. Probably full of cum, too, because an ass like that deserves all the loads. I would bet my life it gets bred quite frequently. The man has barely spoken two words to me since he subscribed a couple of months ago, yet somehow, I think I’ve fallen in love with his butt. I want to spread his cheeks wide open and give him a nice, long kiss. Bury my tongue inside it. Hell, I kind of wanna put my nose right against his pucker and inhale his scent, but that’s a depraved thought, and something only an absolute whore would contemplate.
Guess I’m a whore for that hole.
“Yes, I can absolutely do you next, sir.” I shuffle my tarot deck as I smile into the camera. “Are you ever going to tell me your name Daddy McSnack?”
He responds with a thumbs down emoji, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t disheartening. Still, I soldier on, splitting the cards into two piles. I don’t really understand the art of tarot reading, but my best buddy Austin says it’s not what’s in the cards that matter, it’s the words singing in your heart, but how the fuck would he know? He’s not psychic, and he can’t sing to save his life. We learned that in Pretty Boy Prison. All he knows how to do is stroke his cock on camera for tips. He can’t be expected to know the ins and outs of the art of clairvoyance.
I flip the first cardover. It’s a picture of Austin, lying back in bed, his cock hard and standing at attention. His testicles have been painted to resemble a skull and crossbone. “Ah, the death card,” I tell Daddy McSnack. “Don’t be scared, though. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to die.” God, I hope he doesn’t die. What a waste for queer men across the world that would be. “We’ll know more when I draw your next card, so don’t freak out just yet.”
“I’m not,” he replies.
“Well, you could show a bit more enthusiasm, but that’s okay.” Turning my attention back to the deck, I sigh once the next card is face-up. The High Priestess. “Shit. Well, that settles it. You’re dead as a doornail, Daddy McSnack. I’m actually kind of bummed. I think you might be my favorite person here, even though you don’t talk a lot.” On the card, Austin is wearing an unsecured white priestess robe, the front wide open, his cock hard and jutting out at an alarming angle, leaking all over the fucking rug as he cheeses for the camera. He’s wearing an oversized hat that kind of looks like it came from a pope costume. I adore my best friend.
StopFrackingStartSnackingOnDaddy responds with a question mark.
“It means you’re gonna get sick and probably die, and it will kill you slowly. It will eat away at your insides until you’re a husk of who you once were. I’m really sorry about that.” I stare down at the tarot guide flashcards in my lap, double-checking that I haven’t mixed the meaning up with another card, the same way I’ve done countless times. “Or it could be talking about love, and it could mean that you’re going to find someone you connect with on a profound level.”
“Do I know this guy?”
“Fuck if I know. Do I look like a psychic to you?” I pause, shaking my head. “I mean, I guess I must. That’s literallymy job.”
“Your job is to stroke your little dicklet for all of us to see,” one member says.
“Don’t fuckin’ call it that,” Daddy McSnack chastises, putting an apostrophe next to theNfor reasons unknown.
“Are you defending my honor?” I ask him.
He sends me the middle finger emoji. Prick.
“As I was saying, this new relationship of yours will be big, it will be beautiful, and you’re gonna love it.”
“ ... Did you just quote Miss Coco Peru?”
I nod proudly. “She’s my queen.”
“Mine too,” he replies. “I haveTrickon DVD, and I like to watch her parts over and over.”
It’s funny, because Johnny also owns a copy ofTrick. Apparently he bought it the day he met Bubba because he thought the DVD cover was cool.
I flip the final card over, then check my flashcard to make sure it means what I think it does. “Well, the good news is, I don’t think you’re going to die.” I lift the card—an image of Austin riding his stepfather’s bare cock—and show it to the camera. “The Lovers card. This reading is definitely romantic in nature. These cards—Death, Lovers, the High Priestess—all indicate you’re going to experience a significant transformation in one of your relationships. I feel like it’s going to be a good change. Someone you already know is probably going to be your happily-ever-after.”
“Probably not.”
“It’s in the cards. It’s already been written.” I stare at his profile picture again, openly lusting over his bare ass. “Whoever this mystery man is, he’s a lucky guy. Your ass is fucking sinful.”
“You really think so?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s fucking divine. I’m not even a top, but I’d top that ass in a heartbeat.” Swallowing, I look away from the camera, over at a picture of Bubba, Johnny, and me on the nightstand. In the picture, we’re all shirtless, standing in our front yard-slash-lake shore, our feet all submerged in Pathfinders Lake. Johnny is angled slightly to the side, his ass jutting out at a similar angle as Daddy McSnack’s profile picture. I bet Johnny’s ass is just as cute as this guy’s, not that it matters to me in the slightest. “Will you send me another picture of your butt, Daddy McSnack? I want to jack off while I look at it.”
Maybe I pushed too hard, because as soon as the words are out, so is he, signing off, leaving me in a cloud of confusion. Maybe his internet connection is fucked, and he got booted. Who knows, who cares? I still have ten other fans waiting for their reading. But I think I kind of miss him.
I dive headfirst into the rest of the readings, wanting to get my mind off Daddy McSnack’s delicious ass, and Johnny’s self-tanner incident. Person by person, I share news, both good and bad, and when I look up at the clock, I realize I’ve been at it for over an hour. Aside from Daddy McSnack and Harold, the whole chat has stayed for the duration. My boys came for a show. It’s time to give them one.
